


Supernatural: A Good Lad

by SingingFlames



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Past, back story, medieval scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6073276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingingFlames/pseuds/SingingFlames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How much do past events affect the future? A possible look at the past of two infamous characters. No pairings. No spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supernatural: A Good Lad

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Supernatural: A Good Lad  
> Pairings: None  
> Spoilers: None  
> Rating: PG  
> Warnings: Bullying, Threat to a minor, Implied threat to a minor, Minor violence, Implied violence  
> Author's Note: I'm going to be super vague here, as I don't want to spoil which Supernatural character(s) I'm writing about. I started pondering how events could shape a person and, eventually, this little plot-bunny emerged. It's not my typical humor piece – in fact, it's rather dark – but I like it.

Teeth bared, the scrap of a pup growled and tugged at the twig. Holding the other end, a young boy – no more than five or six years in age – laughed at the young mutt's antics. It's feet slipped forward in the mud as the child gave the stick a playful jerk. Moisture and muck seeped through his linen breeches and long coat, unheeded by the boy and adding another layer of stains to the fraying clothes. 

Life in the burgh continued heedless of the pair. The thick scent of dung mixed with warm flavors wafting from the baker and the underlying smell of unwashed humanity. A herder maneuvered his sheep down the lane, the moist earth churning under their hooves. Women, balancing baskets of cloth or food or other traded goods, bustled about, a few calling out jovial comments back and forth. A voice called out a sudden warning, followed by the contents of a chamber pot being flung into the muddy street below. The townsfolk moved aside from the raining slop and continued their business. 

Behind the child and pup, another, larger boy approached, hands balled into fists.

The small boy slapped the twig in the mud, giggling as the pup jumped to and fro. His smile spread wide across his dirt-smudged face. His eyes never left the scruffy animal before him.

Two hands shoved him from behind.

He flew forward, the pup forced to dodge his falling form. With a yip, the animal fled. The boy threw his arms out to catch himself. Pain laced up his arm at the sudden impact. The mud and filth spattered up his front, painting his face with grime. His teeth knocked together, catching his tongue between them. The taste of blood filled his mouth. He spat.

“That ain't yer dog, ye thief!”

The small boy scrambled up, swiping muck from his face. He spun about. “Thommas?” The child shuffled back a step. “Bollocks...”

“That be one of Duncan's pups. What ye be doin' with it?” Thommas matched the move.

“Nothin'.”

“Ye a liar. What ye have planned for that pup, there? Ye gonna eat it?” Thommas moved closer, jabbing the scrawny boy in the ribs. The child shook his head, but Thommas ignored him. “I heard of ye and yer mum. Cats and dogs disappearin' around that hut of yers. Can't afford to buy yer food, so ye be stealing others' beasties?”

“No!”

Thommas answered with a fist to the smaller boy's face. 

~ ~ ~

Feet dragging, blood drying under his swollen nose and split lip, the boy shuffled into the hut. Mud and straw held the walls together. A fire pit squated in the center, an iron pot churning above it. Next to that, a rough wooden table held clay jars, dried herbs, bits of feathers and bones, smaller pots and leather pouches. Stirring the boiling pot with one hand, a woman with full head of long, red curls picked through the sundries on the table, humming under her breath.

“Ach, 'tis about time, lad,” she said, her attention on her work.

The boy took another hesitant step forward, his hands smoothing his blood and mud-stained clothes.

The woman continued for several seconds in silence. Dropping a pinch of ash into the pot, she glanced back at him. Her eyes traveled up and down his scrawny frame, taking in the cuts, swelling bruises, the drying blood and mud.

“Did ye get it?”

“No, Mum.”

“And what,” she dragged out the word, “happened?”

“Thommas, he–”

“The tanner's wee brat? And what was he doin' at Duncan's place?”

The boy refused to meet his mother's eyes. “I weren't there anymore. I took the pup, and I, well, I, it ...”

“Ye 'took it'? Ye stupid child. Ye were supposed to bleed it there an' come home. I be needin' life's blood for this.” She jabbed the wooden spoon into the cauldron. “The younger, the better. Ye 'took it'. An' look what happened for yer trouble. Fool.”

“I could not help it, Mum. It had them big eyes, an' it were hoppin' about. It,” he shrugged, helpless, “it made me laugh.” 

“Oi, poor babe. Poor, stupid babe. Ye loved that mongrel, aye?” The boy refused to meet her gaze. She 'tsked'. “Tell me, where be that pup now?”

“It ran off.”

“Aye. That be love. They use ye to make them happy, then they run off. They all be the same.” The woman plucked a feather from the table, held it up to the firelight, ran a finger along its edge before nodding in satisfaction. She dropped it in the cauldron. “So. I still need that blood.”

“I'll go back, Mum.”

“Ach, that brat no doubt ran off and filled Duncan's ears about ye and his pup. Duncan be watching them closer now. Ye'll not get another chance.”

“There not be any other bitches with pups right now.”

“Well,” she tapped her finger against her chin, lips pursing, “the spell doesn't specify dog blood. I could, I suppose, use a different life's blood. Say, that of a boy who can't follow simple directions.” She flicked her gaze to the child.

“Mum, please...”

“Unless you can think of another lad who be a good choice?” The redhead hitched an eyebrow at him.

“I – I do not want ...” the boy stammered, his voice trailing off. His gaze darted around the hut, landing everywhere but his mother. “Mum, I ... Thommas. Use him. His blood.”

“There's me boy.” She beamed. “Ye still have the blade and flask?”

Gaze on the dirt floor, he fumbled inside his long coat and brought out a ceremonial dagger – simple, but properly blessed and, most importantly, sharp – and a leather flask. He held them out to her. She left them there, dangling in his outstretched hand.

“Good. Here be the new plan.” She stressed the word 'new' and he winced. “Ye go find Thommas, tonight, when he be out doin' his nightly chores. Take a big stick, whack him good and hard in the throat–”

“What? Me?” He stared at her, mouth agape. Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, Mum.”

“–good and hard, so he can't holler for help. Then you take the blade, slice him across his throat like ye should have done to that pup. Catch the blood and fill up the flask. If it not be completely full, I'll take the life's blood, all of it, from ye. We understand each other?”

The boy swallowed. “Aye, Mum.”

“I always knew ye could be taught, Fergus.” Rowena smiled. “Now, be a good lad and go slit a throat for yer mum.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, I've fallen for Supernatural. I've always loved Urban Fantasy as a genre and Supernatural is just ... freaking ... awesome. :faint:
> 
> I rarely have time to write anymore (or relax, it seems like) but I really want to get back into my writing groove. I really had to squeeze in time to finish this. It started out as a drabble and then, well, it grew to un-drabble-ish proportions. I am not sorry for that.
> 
> While this story doesn't have an spoilers really, readers who have watched at least through Season 10 will follow this better. We know Crowley hates his mother and blames much, if not all, of his poor childhood on Rowena. But, other than trying to sell him for a few pigs, we never really find out what she did to him. Given what we know of Rowena, threatening her own child and turning him into a murderer doesn’t seem too far fetched. (Mild disclaimer: I've only seen parts of Season 11, but I doubt there's any massive insight into his childhood in those episodes I've missed.)
> 
> Some of my watchers know I'm an avid researcher. I was a bit flustered because I couldn't find out which area (Highlands or Lowlands) of Scotland Crowley/Fergus grew up in. Finally, I arbitrarily decided on Lowlands, since that was more similar to traditional medieval villages (versus Highlands, which had the clans and kilts - which, at the time, were called plaids - and all the stereotypical 'Scottish' things) since it worked better for my setting. And from all this research, what actually made it into the story? Fergus' clothes. Yep. A young boy's body, from the 1600s (Fergus was born 1661), was found mostly preserved in a bog. I took his basic outfit and stuck Fergus in it. Do I regret spending hours researching medieval Scotland, only to include two pieces of clothing in the end? No, I do not.
> 
> Supernatural and all associated names are registered trademarks of The CW Network. My work is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by The CW Network.


End file.
